


R/skincareaddiction

by Whatsastory



Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [21]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: I don’t know anything about skincare, M/M, don’t come for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: Only, when Mickey's twenty six, he looks in the mirror after just having brushed his teeth, spitting out toothpaste all along his sink that he most definitely is not going to clean, because he is a man and he does not care, and he notices some things. Some things he wished he didn't.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668712
Comments: 28
Kudos: 125





	R/skincareaddiction

**Author's Note:**

> Suspend your disbelief and pretend that Ulta has all of these things, please and thank you 😂

Okay, so here's the thing about Mickey. Mickey is a man. Not only is Mickey a man, but he's a man's man, alright? His fingernails are perpetually grimy, his apartment smells like cigarettes and dirty laundry, and his preferred drink is an ice cold beer. 

So, because of Mickey's undisputed manliness, it's not like he gives a flying fuck about stupid things like aging. Never did. Everyone does it- s'just what happens. You get old and you die. Book closes, credits roll and that's it; you're done. Mickey pointedly does not care about it. 

Only, when Mickey's twenty six, he looks in the mirror after just having brushed his teeth, spitting out toothpaste all along his sink that he most definitely is not going to clean, because he is a man and he does not care, and he notices some things. Some things he wished he didn't. 

He's got some fine lines around his forehead- he figures it's from the perma-scowl etched into his features for all of eternity. He's also got some, whatcha-call-its, those little fucking pock-marky type things on his cheeks. Little scar type left overs from picking at his zits when he was younger. You try living with his fucking dad for eighteen goddamn years and try to walk away without wrinkles and stress-picked reminders. Okay? Yeah, that's what he thought. 

And upon closer inspection, maybe there's more. Maybe there's a couple of black heads, alright, Jesus, around the corners of his nose and just below his bottom lip. And maybe there's some of those stupid little lines at the corners of his eyes- pigeon's claws or whatever the fuck they're called. And maybe, maybe there's a dry patch of skin up over his left eyebrow. What, you think he should drink more water? Don't make him laugh. 

And all of those things are like, whatever, man. They're just a part of him. He don't care, you don't care. Great. So that's settled. 

Only, later when he's laying in bed, eyes trained to the ceiling, he just starts... feeling. Rubbing his finger over the imperfections in his skin, taking notice of all the little bumps and valleys that his complexion has decided to take on. And maybe. Just fucking maybe. He hates them. 

So he takes to Google. 

Skin fucked up what to do 

First thing that pops up is some article on some website called 'Betches,' and it's titled '7 ways you're fucking up your skin right now,' and it kind of speaks to him, so he clicks it. It's, as promised, seven ways he's fucking up his skin right now. He reads through it, even pausing to watch the gifs load and run through. And okayyyy okay, he gets it. He does every one of the things on the list. But if these "Betches," think he's going to get a silk god damn pillow to sleep on like he's the queen of England- again, don't make him laugh. 

So he taps the back arrow and keeps scrolling. And scrolling. And reading. And taking in the information. And then, he targets the problems. With his new and enhanced vocabulary. 

Products for dry skin on forehead 

And okay, alright. He's getting somewhere now. Those fucking websites telling him to rub a mashed up banana on his skin can suck his dick, though. He's not gonna buy produce- let alone just to smash it and wear it. Please. 

The first product he sees is from The Ordinary- and actually, a lot of them are from that brand. And shit, it's cheap. So he clicks and reads reviews on on The Ordinary Natural Moisturizing Factors + Ha. And y'know, there's something to be said about 4K+ reviews, all overwhelmingly positive. So he makes a mental list- he's getting it. And then, he sees more reviews for more products and serums, and shit. Mickey might have just come up with a new skin care regime. Because he's a man. And skin care is not just for women. 

His next off day finds him in an Ulta. He scans the rows with shifting eyes- glaring at anyone who comes up to him and ask why the scary looking thug is perusing makeup. It's not their business, and they don't need to know that he's got some problem areas that need addressed. 

He finds the Bioré charcoal pore strips easily enough, adding them to his bag after he reads the back of the box. And the Thayer's toner, of course. Obviously. Anyone with half a brain knows that you need a good toner- especially when you've got sensitive skin and pores that are just begging to clog with dirt- hence the charcoal strips. 

He grabs a tub of Cera Ve SA cream next, just for like an every couple of days moisturizer. And if he's getting that, well then obviously he needs a good SPF- he opts for a 50 because, well, that's the highest he sees. 

He's on the hunt for a good hyalouronic acid serum- again, he's pretty sure that he's going with The Ordinary. You just can't dispute the reviews. You can't, and he won't. So he's looking and looking, when someone clears their throat from behind him. 

"Something I can help you with, sir?" It's unexpected, to say the least, when Mickey registers that it's a male voice. A deep, male voice. It's even more unexpected when he faces the voice, ready to tell him to fuck off, and he sees- him. And Jesus, who the fuck thought it was okay to let this guy walk around in public looking like- that. Indecent, is what it is. Him and that-that flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. And his perfect, fall-leaf-orange hair. He is. In. Decent. 

Mickey opens his mouth, only to snap it shut, just in time to shake his head and clear away his inde- his thoughts. 

"No," he says, and bends back down to look through the shelves, only, the guy doesn't leave. And who the fuck thought it was okay to hire a man at Ulta? Like, have a little self respect, man (Mickey very pointedly chooses to ignore the fact that he, himself is shopping at an Ulta, so like, chill with the internalized toxic masculinity). 

"Looks like you've got some good shit there," the guy says and kicks his booted foot at Mickey's bag. 

Mickey's eyes fall to his foot, still tapping at his bag, before they follow up his leg and land back on his face. 

"You make a habit of assaulting your customers?" Mickey grunts, standing back up to his full height. 

"You make a habit of being so over dramatic?" The guy- Ian, Mickey reads the name tag- laughs. And. Indecent. Okay? Like, how many times does Mickey have to tell you this? 

"You wanna die?" 

So. 

Maybe Mickey's a little over dramatic. 

Ian only laughs more and holds his hands up in surrender. Stupid fucker. Stupid, cute fucker. Fuck. 

"This for your girlfriend?" He asks through his laughter, pointing instead of touching Mickey's bag again. And- that's not a bad out, really. 

"Sure. Yeah," he says, scratching nervously at that patch of skin about his eyebrow- praying to god or whoever will listen that it doesn't snow down into his eyebrow itself. 

"Okay. So what type of skin does she have?" 

"Dry around the outside, little oily in the t-zone," Mickey mutters without really thinking, letting his eyes scan over the rows of products again. 

"Ah, gotcha," Ian says, stupidly, pointing finger guns at Mickey like he's eight years old. "No man knows what skin types are unless they're in here for themselves." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Oh, come on. We're all friends here. Plus, you know what a t-zone is, so just like, cut the shit and let's talk skin care." 

Mickey again opens his mouth and snaps it back shut. Who just- who just talks like that? And who the actual fuck leans in close and examines someone's face like they're about to make a neighborhood watch sketch of it? Well, apparently, this guy. 

Mickey backs away like he's been burned, and Ian taps his finger against his cheek as he thinks. 

"Think you could do with a peel. A mild one. Don't let people fool you- those strong ones are too much and you don't need it. But it'll reduce some of your blemish scars."

“Blemish scars,” Mickey scoffs. “Fuck you.” 

“Fuck you back. They’re not that bad, wouldn’t even notice it if I didn’t know what you were in here to buy. But, as it stands,” he shrugs openly. 

“Okay. So what the fuck should I buy then?” Mickey asks defensively. And the thing is, he knew what he wanted to buy. He came in with a specific list in mind. But all of his knowledge seems to go out the window with the gangly vision in red before him. 

Ian takes him from aisle to aisle, grabbing things and talking about their benefits. Mickey doesn’t hear a word of it. He just nods along and lets the stupid fuck add shit to his bag; dollar signs rolling behind his eyes. 

“And, also, maybe you should get some Brazilian Bum Bum cream,” Ian says, just when Mickey’s about to head to the register. 

“Excuse me?” 

“It smooths and tightens skin,” Ian shrugs again. “Smells really good, too. Tropical.” 

“Smooths and tightens skin... on my ass?” Mickey hopes that his arched eyebrow is hitched up high enough on his face. 

“Well... yeah.” 

“Uh huh,” Mickey nods, scratching at his lip with his thumbnail. “So, like, you gonna come help me put it on?” 

Six months later Mickey leans against his silk pillow, settling down on his back with his hands clasped against his stomach. He’s relaxed. He feels great. 

He’s got his avocado and honey face mask soaking into his skin, and life is good. 

He turns his head, just enough to look over, but not enough to get any of the goop on his precious pillow. He laughs as he looks at Ian, the same mask drying against his skin, the pale green off setting his hair and making it look like fire. 

“You look like a fucking ogre,” he tells him, and only smiles wider when Ian starts to laugh, and the drying mask cracks around his lips. 

“Yeah, okay,” Ian titters out, and before Mickey can tease him further, Ian’s rolled on top of him and pressing a sticky kiss to his mouth. 

“You’re fucking up my mask, man,” he grumbles, but ultimately, he doesn’t really care. So he kisses back and decides that his mask will just have to live with it.


End file.
